


In 1913

by honeynoir (bracelets)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Community: clara_who, F/M, Remember Me - a Clara Oswald Fanworkathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bracelets/pseuds/honeynoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1913, Clara is a nurse.  A Human Nature/Family of Blood AU snippet, with Clara instead of Joan. (Clara/John Smith)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In 1913

**Author's Note:**

> A Human Nature/Family of Blood AU snippet. T, Clara/John Smith. Clara instead of Joan. 
> 
> For [this fanworkathon](http://clara-who.livejournal.com/20313.html) and the prompt: any version of Clara in Human Nature/Family of Blood. Clara could either replace Joan Redfern and the whole would be completely AU, or Clara could befriend Martha and help out in any way she can.

“Mrrrrr,” said Clara, her forehead against the fan of inky papers on her desk, her hair splayed all over. As much as she loved all her children, there were only so many splinters, sprains and bouts of homesickness she could deal with in a row before needing a break. She reached out and fumbled blindly for John’s journal and a bit of escapism, and then remembered that it wasn’t there anymore. He’d taken it back. He’d had more dreams, supposedly, and needed to record them. Or Martha had made him. 

She’d just have to see the man himself, then. Almost as good. They had something going, but stars knew what -- the very youngest boys were less shy than Mr Smith. They were both widowed, and she was only 26 and bolder now... she’d make her intentions known step by step. Small steps, that was – she had Invited him to play nurse last week, and he still hadn’t shown.

 

She’d barely managed to twist her hair into a passable chignon and hope there wasn’t ink on her face when he tore his door open. She’d have to learn to knock _after_ her hair was done. “Matron!” he exclaimed, making a face somewhere between joy and terror. “Uh, Clara. What brings you here at this hour?”

Clara straightened her apron and slipped past him, into his rooms. “Only curious to hear about your fantastic dreams. What’s the Doctor been doing, that sort. What else could I possible be here for?”

“Oh, I only had the lizard people again, nothing else.” He scratched his head, mussing his untameable hair futher. “They were living under water, this time.”

“I like the lizard people.”

“Me too! Haven’t had time to add it to the journal, which brings me to a point I should like to discuss. In short, I’d like to...”

She raised a brow. 

“Might I draw you? In the journal?”

“I thought that was only for dreams. You’ve dreamt about me?”

“That is... no, nothing, nothing. I tend to not draw the faces of women very well, I should practice, need to practice. If you’d sit down, please, the sofa, I’ll get my pencils.”

 

He sketched quietly, intensely, and with the tip of his tongue sticking out.

“Does my nose really look like that?” she asked when he finally angled the book toward her. On the page was the dark of her eyes and hair, the grey of the dress and the stark white of the apron. He’d captured the shape of her lips and dimples perfectly. Even the watch pinned to her chest was perfect. Her face, in his book of wonders. In a journal of impossible things. 

“Yes. I never lie about noses.” His face softened into what was almost a different visage entirely. “Yours is, by the by... perfect.”

She shifted on the sofa, until she could just feel the heat from his leg against her own. “You should see me stumbling out of bed at four in the morning, stubbing my toes and trying to get out of my gown... I assure you I do not look like that. Except, of course, the nose.”

Five or ten very quiet seconds followed, during which he stared, mouth half-open, at her. He finally closed the distance between them and gave her a kiss, brushing his lips tentatively and eagerly against hers – till she moved even closer, and the journal landed on the floor with that flat noise only books could make. John slid away till his armrest stopped him, staring at the hand in which the book had been.


End file.
